Mission for Youth

I am wandering around Wellington, trying to find an address for an interview, when James calls. (James and Jeannine are the couple we stayed with, if you missed that blog.)

"Hey, Alieda," he says cheerfully, "it's James. Would you like a couple of days of work? Are you free on Monday?"

James is a youth worker, and works at an alternate school for kids who, for one reason or another, have been removed from mainstream education. He explains that he's taking the kids on a year-end camp-out as a reward for their good behaviour. But, since the camp will be co-ed, he needs a female to help supervise. Would I be keen?

Since I'm free, and female, I accept immediately. We'll be going whitewater rafting, roasting marshmallows on the camp fire, and then something on the second day, maybe horseback riding or paintball, James hasn't decided. I will be paid a flat rate of $450 for two days.

In the meantime, it's Friday night. John and I head out for Indian, chatting over Masala and Tandoori and sipping cold beer. We've got tickets to see Harry Potter, and after the (magical) film, we head to a pub next door to meet James and Jeannine, who are coming from a party.

What a night. They seem excited to show us the night life, and over the course of five or six hours we see at least eight bars and clubs. Some are no more than a crowded room, standing-room-only, richly decorated but devoid of any furnishings save a crowded bar. Others are reached through unmarked doors and into basements, where suddenly there is a crowd and a happening club. We see live music at a pub, several posh nightclubs where James seems to pull the local strings, and Jeannine always appears to know the doorman. We pick up friends along the way, including a Malaysian-Australian chef, who has just moved to the city from Melbourne; he's on his own, friendly, and could use some company. He buys everyone drinks. We lose him at some point but he catches up with us again at another bar later on.

By the time we climb into a cab, it's past 5:00 a.m. Wellington doesn't shut down at 2:00 like Victoria. John munches late-night Chinese food; I fall asleep as the sun rises.

On Monday, I climb into a van with James and seven fifteen-year-olds. Many of the boys have strong Maori accents, which is harder for me to understand than a standard Kiwi accent. (Watch the movie 'Boy' sometime and you'll see what I mean.) At first, I can hardly understand a word they're saying, but I get used to it. We drive North for hours. The three girls seem to decide that I'm cool instantly because I'm North American, I can drive and I've been to California. Soon they're trying to teach me how to pronounce Maori place-names and asking me personal questions, like how old I am, whether I drink or smoke, and whether I'm a virgin.


The camp has been organized by men and it shows. The only vegetable I see for two days is lettuce for the burgers. Otherwise, the menu consists entirely of processed precooked crap, like canned spaghetti, white bread, precooked sausages, ketchup, hot chocolate, soda, and junk food like cookies, chips, and chocolate bars. I put my diet on hold and tuck in. James tells me that the next-day activity has been decided: a Flying Fox, like a zip-line over the river valley.

I set up my tent, change into my togs (listen to me, what I  mean is a bathing suit), and join the throng as we head to the river wearing life-vests and red helmets. The rafting takes about three or four hours, and since I'm in the front, I get utterly soaked. The river winds its way through a deep canyon, the walls of which drip occasionally with green algae or even waterfalls. The beaches are cluttered with piles of round white stones like eggs. The sun casts a net of light on the currents of the river in calm moments. And when the currents quicken, the river froths over rocks, swirls in ominous vortexes, and falls over cliffs. I am the nose, falling downward and scooping up the water as the raft follows me. James starts a water-fight with the raft of boys, and we splash each other with our paddles before trying to get away. Now it's war.

Every stitch of my clothing is sodden and heavy by the end of the trip. I wring out my sleeves as best I can.

James has other outdoorsey survival-type activities lined up, like a fire-building contest and an orienteering competition. The kids smoke too much, but are otherwise well-behaved. Honestly, I expected worse. I expected juvenile delinquents who would swear at me, steal my stuff, do drugs and maybe beat me up. Instead I met a group of somewhat shy, mock-tough youths who are friendly to me, well-mannered, and help where they can. I remember that John himself was nearly kicked out of school for setting off a smoke-bomb in the hallways that Halloween, and I realize that these kids are completely normal after all.

That night a full moon rises, casting shadows on the field as the kids sneak off to play "Spotlight," a game like tag with flashlights. I am horrified to notice that the moon is upside-down. Can that be right?

I stay up past midnight watching the fire die, turning over my thoughts.

I'm the last one awake the next morning, and roll out in time for breakfast at 7:30. By 9:00 we're back in the van, listening to the kids' rap music and driving through the gorgeous countryside. It never fails to shock me, the beautiful pastoral hillsides, the wildflowers, copses of trees and red algae blooming in low ponds. At one point we drive through a snowstorm of floating fairy seeds.

The kids have no idea where we're going- James keeps them in suspense- but soon we see signs and they get a clue. Gravity Canyon has New Zealand's highest bungee jump, a terrifying swing, and our activity: the Flying Fox, a 1-km zip-line 200 metres above the river canyon. I start to get nervous as we climb the hill toward the launch point. By the time I'm strapped by my ankles facing the drop headfirst, I am shaky. The gate opens. There is nothing between my face and the valley floor but several hundred metres of air. I swear softly to myself, like a chant, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. I can see the cables plunging down the valley before straightening out a few metres above the treetops. The anticipation is torture.

There's a loud bang before the drop, and I'm already screaming. They clock me going 160 km/h headfirst down the mountainside, and get my experience on DVD. By the time I'm horizontal, I'm laughing with relief. Back on solid ground, I still feel shaky, emptied out, all of that adrenaline draining my energy.

I fight sleep on the trip home, somewhat unsuccessfully. When I look around, everyone is
asleep but James. There's nothing to supervise, so I close my eyes again.

Change of Circumstance

Up until now I have been on a holiday. My head space was still as if I lived in Canada, and would return in no time.

But recently I have begun to realize how long I will be in New Zealand, and what it means to travel.

My experience is changing from one of a short-term experience to a long-term, settling kind of mindset. I have developed a kind of panic deep inside me, a desperate ache for home. I can sense that, on the other side of this phase, I will probably develop a kind of acceptance of my life here as permanent and, possibly, hopefully,
of my entire life as one no longer belonging to an island in Canada, but capturing the possibility of belonging elsewhere.

At first the differences of New Zealand were novel and lovely, and they still are, but I have developed lately a kind of antipathy toward these differences, as if they have purposely chosen to remind me that I am not at home.

Here are some things that are different.

Light switches
Power outlets
Toilet flushing handles
Store names (i.e., there is no Wal-Mart, Future Shop, The Bay, or Macs. Instead they've got The Warehouse, Dick Smith, Farmer's and The Fix)
Road signs
Left-handed driving
Trees, birds, and landscape (although Scottish Broom is a plague on these hillsides too).
The moon is upside-down
Different stars, and Orion is also upside-down
The sun is in the north
No insulation or central heating in buildings
Everything is generally about twice as expensive
Music and fashion is pretty '90s, so it's either behind or way ahead of its time.
Television shows run several seasons behind, and there are only about ten channels.
Vocabulary and slang, for instance:

Interact/debit: Eftpos
Americano: Long Black
Latte: Flat White
Espresso: Short Black
Thanks: Cheers, or Ta
You're Welcome: It's all right
Awesome: Choice
Cool: Mean
Great: Sweet as
Into it: Keen
Expensive: Dear
Corner store: Dairy
Garbage: Rubbish
Garbage Can: Bin
Sweater: Jersey
Bell pepper: Capsicum
Zuccini: Courgette
Ketchup: Tomato Sauce
Sprite / 7-Up: Lemonade
Apartment: Flat
Friend: Mate
Fast food: Takeaways
Dessert: Pudding
Chips: Crisps
Fries: Chips
Gas: Petrol
Trunk: Boot
Car Hood: Bonnett
Truck: Lorry
Elevator: Lift
Flashlight: Torch
Swimsuit: Togs
Diaper: Nappy
Stroller: Pram
Cabin: Bach (pronounced like a batch of cookies)
Flip-flops: Jandals

It is startling when I hear a North American speaking. Their lack of accent seems so strange to me.

One thing that has surprised me about New Zealand is the poverty. Don't get me wrong: there's no rampant homelessness like we have at home. The poverty is less severe but more widespread. Any street you drive down, you'll see falling-down business signs, flaking paint, busted fences, boarded-up windows, graffiti, and weeds. Everything is incredibly expensive here, and it seems that the general population can never quite catch up. No one seems to have the time or money to maintain their yards or shopfronts. Stairways crumble, paint peels. It is a state we have seen in every town and city in the country so far. It makes me realize how much effort must go into the careful repairs of our sidewalks, gardens, shopfronts, awnings, and houses back home. I have always taken the pretty aspects for granted: tailored gardens, horsechestnut-lined sidewalks and beautifully painted Victorian homes. Free wireless throughout the city. How rich we are.

I suppose though, that the Kiwis are rich in another sense. The countryside is beautiful beyond anything I've seen. And expenses aside, the people are welcoming and open and more like Americans than they would care to admit. They complain about their government, but truly New Zealand has striven to set an example in the world. They were the first country to give women the vote, the first to instate a marine reserve, the first to refuse nuclear armament and mining and offshore drilling. They are maybe a poorer economy but a richer sense of conviction, I think.

And me here two months, speaking from the pulpit.

We have had a change of circumstance, by the way. The car we had bought was stolen, luckily before we had paid for it. So no car, but no skin off us, either. And I have found a job at a bakery-cafe.

Tomorrow I have short-term work, at a camp for disadvantaged youth. I will be working overnight as the female counsellor. On the plus side, it should be fun: I'm going white-water rafting and on a Flying Fox, having free meals and getting paid very, very well. On the other hand, I'm intimidated. I have no illusions. These kids are going to eat me alive.

Round About Wellington

Still no job, although not for lack of trying. I have been to several interviews, wearing my best jeans and the new flats I bought just for this purpose. But most retailers and cafes want nothing to do with short-term backpackers, and as soon as they figure out I've got a working holiday visa, they clam up. Even if I bullshit to the utmost, about how much I love Wellington and how I'm planning to stay here for as long as I can, I still get no callbacks. I have submitted resumes to temp agencies, and to about five job openings a-day online. I had an interview this morning, and I have another tomorrow. Hopefully, someone bites.

Luckily, John is making a bit of money, so we're not hard up.

Unfortunately, John won an online auction for a car, so we'll have to spend a good chunk of money this week.

On the plus side, we are now the proud owners of a 1992 Subaru Legacy Wagon. We'll be roadtripping around the country in about a month, when John and Medellee get here in time for Christmas. Anna is already in the country, and Clare is in Nelson. Yes, it will be a merry Christmas this year, full of sunshine and friends, and with the car comes freedom.

Also next month, we are planning to book our PADI certificates. The course includes seven dives and all equipment, and the certificate is international, so we'll be able to scuba dive anywhere our travels take us from now on. It has been one of our main goals in coming to New Zealand, and I am excited to get underway. The course takes place between the 6th and the 19th of December.

The flat is working out. It's comfortable and cheap, and quiet, and has a nice view. Today I plan to patch our leaky air mattress, and it'll be perfect, once I start sleeping through the night.

I spend my time walking around Wellington, taking myself out for tea, visiting the libaray, and surfing the internet looking for jobs. I buy the groceries, do the laundry, and cook the meals. I am happy, if a little bored.

I am off to the library.

The Amazing Race

We head to the i-Site to catch our Intercity coach from Napier to Wellington. It's a five-hour trip, but luckily I have an engrossing crap fantasy novel, my music, and some snacks to keep me going. We sit in the sun surrounded by tourists, many hundreds getting dropped off in waves from a nearby cruise ship. I eat an apple. The minutes tick slowly past, until 1:15 or so when we start to worry.

Here's the thing. I didn't write down the exact time of the coach departure-- I just know it's sometime after 1:00, but it could be 1:30.

I go inside to ask and get a blank stare.

"The Intercity bus?" I say again, in case my accent is too strong or something.

"Oh, no," she says, "The Intercity Bus stops on Davis Street."

"Davis Street?" I echo, panic rising in my throat like bile. "Where is that, exactly?"


"I'll just help you in a moment," she says peevishly, motioning to a lineup.

I bolt.

"Davis Street!" I scream to John as I rush outside. He has the good sense to check a map while I scoop up my pack, my day pack, a sweater, a jacket and a book and follow him, no idea where I'm going. My belongings keep slowing me down, the sleeves of my jacket getting tangled with the straps of my pack, the slippery fabric threatening to abandon me as I puff and pant about a block behind John, shouting to the other pedestrians tardy excuse-mes and apologies. It's a long way. We have missed the bus, I'm sure of it. A wasted $80.00 and another night in the hostel, how embarrassing, how awful. Oh no! I am going to miss my interview. Shit!

But wait! I see a bus! It hasn't gone? Is that the bus to Wellington? Is it?

My chest is burning. I am sweating like crazy and I realize that I have forgotten to put on deodorant, the one day I will really need it.

We make it just in time. WELLINGTON says the bus. The coach driver laughs at us and stows our packs. Apparently this kind of thing happens all the time. Maybe they should just move the departure location, I say, to the i-Site, where they dropped us off. Yeah, maybe, says the bus driver.

John does unfortunately have to sit next to his stinky girlfriend for five hours. But at least we are somehow, miraculously, thankfully sitting on this bus and heading to Wellington. The countryside is gorgeous. There are swamps blooming with rust-coloured algae, and miles of hills and farmland that begin to resemble some kind of elite golf course.

That night, James and Jeannine cook us dinner and make up their spare bed. I am given clear instructions as to which bus to catch (9:55), so I will be at my interview on time. I am heading to Cuba Street, and I have to be there by 10:30 a.m. The cat, Ludo, sleeps with us. I sleep uneasily, waking often, listening to the nighttime noises of the guinea pigs, feeling anxious about oversleeping.

I am sitting at the bus stop at 9:50, still feeling anxious. At 10:00, I am getting a bit panicked. No bus has come by. At 10:05 I start running down the hill, trying to head in the direction of the main parade, where buses go by every ten minutes or so. But this is an unfamiliar suburb, and it's pretty much a maze. I run downhill and am met by a dead end. I turn around and run uphill, soon encountering a fork in the road. I choose the left fork, which is leading downhill. It spirals down, cutting back on itself, and somehow, ten minutes of running later, I am actually on the main road. How did that happen?

At 10:25, I am still on the bus to town. I tell the driver I want to go to Cuba Street and he looks at me with hostility. I still have to make it past Cuba Street to a certain address I have to find. I have five minutes.

When the bus stops, I take a couple of breaths and make a run for it. Cuba Street Mall goes by in a colourful haze of cobbled roads, shops, statues, and people. Jeannine says it is the prettiest street in Wellington, but I don't have the time to look at it. I'm late, I'm late, I'm late.

But I'm not the only one. Two people come into the group interview behind me, and I feel saved. Ha! They are even later, which makes me look better. All together, there are about fifteen people in the room, all looking for a job with Greenpeace.

The interview process is pretty stupid. It involves group work, role play, that kind of thing. But I have taken acting lessons, and I am pretty good at this kind of thing. I am one of three invited back at 2:30, to take the bus to some suburb and knock door-to-door, asking people to sign an environmental petition. This is volunteer work, I am told, but if I am successful, I can start training tomorrow. I agree. In the meantime I check out the city, looking in used book stores and having lunch at an Indian buffet.

Well, I am successful. I start training the following day. Although, no one told me that the training is also volunteer, and I'm furious that I have to work from 9:00 until 5:30 for free.

But that is neither here nor there. I can tell I'm not going to like this job. My first day on "the Doors" is okay, and I even get one man to sign up, but it's exhausting and I pretty much hate it. Wellington is built in a valley, and the suburbs on all sides are built into steep hills. You access each house by a long stairway. So, my bum is sore by the end of the day, also my calves and shins. It's also a strain mentally. I have to remember my speech about orangutans in Indonesia, remember to keep my posture, eye contact, voice pitch, and body language. I have to deal with "objections" and try to pressure people into a monthly donation using guilt, conniving, strong language, and plain bullying. If all else fails, I ask them to sign the petition. I get a lot of doors closed in my face.

I call the next morning and quit. John has found a good job, building a school for children with special needs. He tells me that we don't need the money and I can find something else, something I'll enjoy. We spend time on the internet, trying to find a place. I manage to get an interview at a pet shop, which sounds like it might be a fun job.

Finally, we agree to let an empty room in a nice flat with one flatmate, the man who owns the house. It costs $170 per week, but the place is furnished and comfortable. James and Jeannine loan us their air mattress and we sleep on the floor in our sleeping bags, stuffing our pillowcases with clothes to use as pillows. I spend the days wandering around Wellington, dropping off resumes, taking pictures, and trying to learn my way around.

For the first time I begin to miss home.

Napier

Only one hostel in Napier has a room available over Labour Day Weekend, and it's what the hostel owner calls an "internal" room-- meaning that it has no windows. The hostel itself is a converted office building, and the long gray corridors, monotonous navy carpets, and heavy office doors remind one of an empty medical clinic. The hostel owner offers us one day of work the following day, at a carnival. It's the biggest event of the year in Hawke's Bay, the Agricultural Fair, and over the long weekend more than 40% of the region's population will pay the absurd gate fee ($18.00 per person) to wander among carnival games, fair rides, and livestock competitions.

Over the next days we wake in the dark, never knowing whether it is day or night. At 9:00 am on the Friday, we go with three other girls from the hostel in the company van, towards Hastings, for the fair. The weather has turned cold, and it's cloudy and windy. The fair grounds are largely empty this early, and we have about an hour to wander before our jobs start. We examine all the classic carnival stalls, where carnies promise us prizes if we throw well, and we look at the haunted house, the carousel, the ferris wheel, and all the other rides, blowing on our hands and huddling in the wind. We get a cup of coffee and see all the wares for sale, woodworks, preserves, clothing, trinkets, jewelry, until we finally reach the animal fair, where we pet baby goats and even see a five-legged sheep. The llamas are having a competition according to their colour and the quality of their fleece, and the equestrian show is warming up as well. Little girls ride beautifully combed and braided horses, while others practice jumps in the ring.

We are split up to work in different stalls. John gets to work serving hot food near the rock concert and beer gardens, while I get stuck scooping ice cream, and also get to hand out candy floss and caramel apples. It turns out to be a pretty fun job. It turns out that I am wildly talented at scooping ice cream cones, and each one looks beautiful. But it is a cold day and I mostly stand around, chatting with the other girls in the stall. The carnival gets really busy, and all day I can see just a sea of heads walking around carrying balloons, big stuffed animals, chips, hot dogs, and ice creams. Mothers try to keep their flocks happy, and grandfathers spoil little boys with sticky faces. Distant screams in the direction of the roller coasters, crying children, and the tinkling sound of absurd carnival music drift across the crowd, which surges and leaves paper wrappers tumbling in its wake. The sun comes out, albeit grudgingly.

At the end of the day we are paid $115 each in cash. John agrees to ride the ferris wheel with me, and since the place is shutting down we're the only ones on the ride. It turns out to be the fastest ferris wheel in the world. It feels like it's going to jump off the hub and roll into the sunset, and each lift and drop makes me scream a little as my stomach lifts. The man running the machine stops us at the top so we can get some nice pictures. The sun is setting over the town, and we can see all the tents and rides gradually emptying. We plan to spend our money getting supper at the pub. I feel infinitely happy.

At the pub, I can hardly keep my eyes open. I don't know if it's the "hard" day's work, or what, but I don't know if I've ever been so tired. Back at the hostel, we move our things into a large dorm (the windowless room has been booked for the weekend). I shove my pack under a bed, crawl into the lower bunk, and fall asleep with the lights on, with my clothes on, in daylight, with everyone awake and talking unintelligibly in German. John halfheartedly shakes me, tries to coax me into pajamas, but it all seems very unimportant and far away to me. I sleep through the night, and before I know it, it's 6:30 a.m., and I am suddenly and completely awake. The sun is slanting in through the window and I don't know if I've ever been so rested.

It's the day of the Gypsy Fair, and the weather is fine. We lie on the warm, round pebbles on the beach, warming ourselves like reptiles. There is a large choir singing gospel music in the public park, and in between songs, a preacher invites us to praise Jesus in an enraptured voice. Eventually we wander down the beach on a concrete path, surrounded by baby strollers, and children with training wheels, wearing improperly placed helmets, who race each other, and show off by riding in the grass. The gypsy fair looks very much like Bilbo Baggins' birthday party. Hand-painted signs advertise pony rides, palm- and tarot-card readings, crafts, clothes, carvings, cotton candy, and jewelry. Each caravan is brightly decorated, and out front, there are tents made of beach-wood and bedsheets. Many of the caravans have additions and look just like houses on top, with windows, and shutters, flower-boxes, doorways, stairways, and front porches cunningly positioned and beautifully painted. And after the fair, I suppose, they pack up their tents and drive these caravans to the next town. We wander to each one. Some are selling complete junk. I buy a beautiful hand-made printed dress, and then we walk to the park for lunch, eating every kind of fruit on the grass, surrounded by palm trees and flowers and ponds full of lilies and goldfish.

 We move hostels after the weekend. At the new backpackers, we sign up for orchard work, which is apparently forthcoming, and pay for a week. It's a busy hostel, to say the least. Twenty people are cooking together every mealtime. We meet a couple of Americans and spend time together at the pub in the evenings. We also walk to Cape Kidnappers to see the Gannet colony, and have lunch on the beach. We watch movies, and meet other travelers from Scotland, from Czech Republic, from Italy, Germany, England, and France. Everyone is waiting for work. On Halloween I sing karaoke in an empty pub, and we play epic rounds of pool and darts while drinking $10 "jugs" (*much smaller than Canadian pitchers). We spend time at the internet cafe looking for jobs, but they seem to all be in Wellington.

Finally, I get a phone call from Greenpeace. They want me to take a job in Wellington; the interview is on Tuesday morning. Since we are paid up until Monday, we decide to take the plunge. We contact James and Jeannine, John's friends from his travels in Australia, and let them know we'll be in town. They have offered to let us stay with them. We book a bus, pack our bags, and get ready to encounter Wellington, the San Francisco of New Zealand.